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th  hath  bubbles  as  the  water  hath,  and  these  are  of  then 

Macbeth. 


THE 


LOST  GALLEON 


OTHER    TALES. 


FR.    BRET    HARTE. 


SAN    FRANCISCO: 

TOWNE   &   BACON,   PRINTERS. 
1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the   Year  1867,  by 

FR.    BRET  HARTE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
District  of  California. 


•ps 


BEFORE   THE   CURTAIN. 


Behind  the  footlights  hangs  the  rusty  baize  ; 

A  trifle  shabby  in  the  upturned  blaze 

Of  flaring  gas,  and  curious  eyes  that  gaze. 

The  stage,  methinks,  perhaps  is  none    too  wide  ; 

And  hardly  fit  for  royal  Richard's  stride, 

Or  FalstafPs  bulk,  or  Denmark's  youthful  pride. 

Ah  well  !    no  passion  walks  its  humble  boards — 
O'er  it  no  king  nor  valiant  Hector  lords — 
The  simplest  skill  is  all  its  space  affords — 

The  song  and  jest,  the  dance  and  trilling  play — 
The  local  hit  at  follies  of  the  day — 
The  trick  to  pass  an  idle  hour  away — 

For  these,  no  trumpets  that  announce  the  Moor- 
No  blast  that  makes  the  hero's  welcome  sure— 
A  single  fiddle  in  the  overture  ! 


CONTENTS. 


TALES   AND   LEGENDS— 

PACK. 

THE  LOST  GALLEON        .        .        .  .        13 

John  Burns  of  Gettysburg  .         .         .  -23 

Tale  of  a  Pony 29 

Padre    jftinipero's   Miracle     .         .         .         .  -35 

NATIONAL   AND    SANITARY— 

The  Reveille          .......     45 

Our   Privilege 47 

Second  Review   of  the   Grand  Army  .  .    49 

On  a  Pen  of  Thomas  Starr  King  53 

The  Rabbit  of  Malvern  Hills       .         .        .  .55 
Of  One  who  Fell  in  Battle        ....         59 


PAGE. 

The   Goddess 6l 

How  are    You,   Sanitary  ?         .         •         •         •  65 
Relieving   Guard— March  tfh,   1864     .         .         .67 

A   Sanitary  Message 69 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Pliocene  Skull 75 

An  Arctic   Vision 79 

The  Aged  Stranger 83 

Hero  of  Sugar   Pine 85 

Legends  of  the   Rhine &7 

The    Two  Ships 9i 

The  Lpst    Tails  of  Miletus       .  93 

A    Geological  Madrigal 95 

P.ALLADS   OF    SAN    FRANCISCO— 

The  Emeu 97 

The    Willows IO1 

North  Beach  IO7 


TALES   AND    LEGENDS. 


THE    LOST   GALLEON. 


IN   sixteen  hundred  and  forty-one, 
The  regular  yearly  galleon, 
Laden  with  odorous  gums  and  spice, 
India  cottons  and  India  rice, 
And  the  richest  silks  of  far  Cathay, 
Was  due  at  Acapulco  Bay. 

Due  she  was  and  over-due, 
Galleon,  merchandise   and  crew, 
Creeping  along  through  rain  and  shine, 
Through  the  tropics,  under  the  Line. 


14  The  Lost  Galleon. 

The  trains  were  waiting  outside  the  walls, 
The  wives  of  sailors  thronged  the  town, 
The  traders  sat  by  their  empty  stalls, 
And  the  viceroy  himself  came  down. 
The  bells  in  the  tower  were  all  a-trip, 
Te  deums  were  on  each  Father's  lip, 
The  limes  were  ripening  in  the  sun 
For  the  sick  of  the  coming  galleon. 

All  in  vain.      Weeks  passed  away, 

• 
And  yet  no   galleon  saw  the  bay. 

India  goods  advanced  in  price, 
The  Governor  missed  his  favorite  spice, 
The  Senoritas  mourned  for  sandal, 
And  the  famous  cottons  of  Coromanclel. 
And  some  for  an  absent  lover  lost, 
And  one  for  a  husband — Donna  Julia, 
Wife  of  the  Captain,  tempest-tossed, 
In  circumstances  so  peculiar — 
Even  the  Fathers,  unawares, 
Grumbled  a  little  at  their  prayers, 
And  all  along  the  coast  that  year, 


The  Lost  Galleon.  15 

Votive  candles  were  scarce  and  dear. 

Never  a  tear  bedims  the  eye 

That  time  and  patience  will  not  dry; 

Never  a  lip  is  curved  with  pain 

That  can't  be  kissed  into  smiles  again. 

And  these  same  truths,  as  far  as  I  know, 

Obtained  on  the  coast  of  Mexico 

More  than  two  hundred  years  ago, 

In  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty-one — 

Ten  years  after  the  deed  was  done — 

And  folks  had-  forgotten  the  galleon. 

The  divers  plunged  in  the  Gulf  for  pearls, 

White  as  the  teeth  of  the  Indian  girls  ; 

The  traders  sat  by  their  full  bazaars ; 

The  mules  with  many  a  weary  load, 

And  oxen,  dragging  their  creaking  cars, 

Came  and  went  on  the    mountain  road. 

Where  was  the  galleon  all  this  while — 
Wrecked  on  some  lonely  coral  isle  ? 
Burnt  by  the  roving  sea  marauders, 
Or  sailing  north  under  secret  orders  ? 


1 6  The  Lost  Galleon. 

Had  she  found  the  Anian  passage  famed, 

By  lying  Moldonado  claimed, 

And  sailed  through  the  sixty-fifth  degree 

Direct  to  the  North  Atlantic  sea  ? 

Or  had  she  found  the   "  River  of  Kings," 

Of  which  De  Fonte'  told  such  strange  things 

In  sixteen-forty  ?      Never  a  sign, 

East,  or  West,  or  under  the  Line, 

They  saw  of  the  missing  galleon ; 

Never  a  sail,  or  plank,  or  chip, 

They  found  of  the  long-lost  treasure  ship, 

Or  enough  to  build  a  tale  upon. 

But  when  she  was  lost,  and  where  and  how, 

Are  the  facts  we're  coming  to  just  now. 

Take,  if  you  please,  the  chart  of  that  day, 
Published  at  Madrid— /w  el  Rey— 
Look  for  a  spot  in  the  old  South  Sea, 
,  The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree 

Longitude,  west  of   Madrid  :  there, 
Under  the  equatorial  glare, 
Just  where  the  East  and   West  are  one, 


The  Lost  Galleon.  i; 

You  '11  find  the  missing  galleon; 
You  '11  find  the  San   Gregorio,  yet 
Riding  th?"seas,  with  sails  all  set, 
Fresh  as  upon  the  very  day 
She  sailed  from  Acapulco  Bay. 

How  did  she  get  there  ?     What  strange  spell 
Kept  her  two  hundred  years  so  well, 
Free  from  decay  and   mortal  taint  ? 
What — but  the  prayers  of  a  patron    saint ! 

A  hundred  leagues  from  Manila  town, 
The  San  Greg-aria's  helm  came  down  ; 
Round  she  went  on  her  heel,  and  not 
A  cable's  length  from  a  galliot 
.  That  rocked  on  the  waters,  just  abreast 
Of  th%  galleon's  course,  which  was  west-sou-west. 

Then  said  the  galleon's  Commandante, 
General   Pedro   Sobriente, 
(That  was  his  rank  on  land  and  main, 
A  regular  custom  of  Old  Spain :) 
'  My  pilot   is  dead  of  scurvy  ;    may 
-,* 


1 8  The  Lost  Galleon. 

I  ask  the  longitude,  time,  and  day  ?" 

The  first  two  given  and  compared,  ,. 

The  third — the  Commandante  stared  ! 

"The  first  of  June  ?    I  make  it  second." 
Said  the  stranger,  "  Then  you  've  wrongly  reckoned 
I  make  it  first :  as  you  came  this  way, 
You  should  have  lost — d'ye  see — a  day — 
Lost  a  day,  as  you  plainly  see, 
On  the  hundred  and  eightieth  degree." 

"  Lost   a   day  ?"     "  Yes,  if  not  rude, 
When  did  you  make  east  longitude  ?" 

"  On  the  ninth  of  May — our   patron's  day." 

"  On  the  ninth  ? — you  had  no  ninth  of  J/ar  .' 
Eighth  and  tenth  was  there — but  stay  " — 

Too  late — for  the  galleon  bore  away. 
• 
Lost  was  the  day  they  should  have  kept, 

Lost  unheeded  and  lost  unwept; 
Lost  in  a  way  that  made  search  vain, 
Lost  in  the  trackless  and  boundless  main  ; 
Lost  like  the  day  of  Job's  awful  curse, 
In  his  third  chapter,  third  and  fourth  verse  : 


The  Lost  Galleon.  19 

Wrecked  was  their  patron's  only  day — 
What  would  the  holy  fathers  say  ? 

Said  the  Fray  Antonio  Estavan, 
The  galleon's  chaplain — a  learned  man — 
'  Nothing  is  lost  that  you  can  regain  : 
And  the  way  to  look  for  a  thing,  is  plain 
To  go   where  you  lost  it,  back  again. 
Back  with  your  galleon  till  you  see 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree. 
Wait  till  the  rolling  year  goes  round, 
And  there  will  the  missing  day  be  found. 
For  you'll  find — if  computation 's  true, 
That  sailing  East  will  give  to  you 
Not  only  one  ninth  of  May,  but  two — 
One  for  the  good  saint's  present  cheer, 
And  one  for  the  day  we  lost  last  year." 

Back  to  the  spot  sailed  the  galleon ; 
Where,  for  a  twelve-month,  off  and  on 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree, 
She  rose  and  fell  on  a  tropic  sea. 


The  Lost  Galleon. 

But   lo !    when  it  came  the  ninth  of  May, 

All  of  a  sudden  becalmed  she  lay 

One  degree  from  that  fatal  spot, 

Without  the  power  to  move  a  knot ; 

And  of  course  the  moment  she  lost  her  way, 

Gone  was  her  chance  to  save  that  day. 

To  cut  a  lengthening  story  short, 

She  never  saved  it.      Made  the  sport 

Of  evil  spirits,  and  baffling  wind, 

She  was  always  before  or  just  behind, 

One  day  too  soon  or  one  day  too  late, 

And  the   sun,  meanwhile,  would  never  wait. 

She  had  two  Eighths,  as  she  idly  lay, 

Two  Tenths,  but  never  a  Ninth  of  May. 

And  there  she  rides  through  two  hundred  years 

Of  dreary  penance  and  anxious  fears  : 

Yet  through  the  grace  of  the  saint  she  served, 

Captain  and  crew  are  still  preserved. 

By  a  computation  that  still  holds  good, 
Made  by  the  Holy  Brotherhood, 
The  San  Gregorio  will  cross  that  line, 


The  Lost  Galleon. 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  thirty-nine  : 

Just  three  hundred  years  to  a  day 

From  the  time  she  lost  the  ninth  of  May. 

And  the  folk  in  Acapulco  town, 

Over  the  waters,  looking  down, 

Will  see  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun, 

The  sails  of  the  missing  galleon, 

And  the  royal  standard  of  Philip  Rey  ; 

The  gleaming  mast  and  glistening  spar, 

As  she  nears  the  surf  of  the  outer  bar. 

A    Te  Deum  sung  on  her  crowded  deck, 

An  odor  of  spice  along  the  shore, 

A  crash,   a  cry  from  a  shattered  wreck — 

And  the  yearly  galleon  sails  no  more, 

In  or  out  of  the  olden  bay, 

For  the  blessed  patron  has  found  his  day. 


Such  is  the  legend.      Hear  this  truth  : 
Over  the  trackless  past,  somewhere, 
Lie  the  lost  days  of  our  tropic  youth, 


The  Lost  Galleon. 

Only  regained  by  faith  and  prayer, 
Only  recalled  by  prayer  and  plaint  :— 
Each  lost  day  has  its  patron  saint  ! 


JOHN  BURNS  OF   GETTYSBURG. 

HAVE  you  heard  the  story  that  gossips  tell 
Of  Burns  of  Gettysburg?  — No?    Ah,  well 
Brief  is  the  glory  that  hero   earns, 
Briefer  the  story  of  poor  JOHN   BURNS  : 
He  was  the  fellow  who  won  renown — 
The  only  man  who  didn't  back  down 
When  the  rebels  rode  through  his  native  town  ; 
But  held  his  own  in  the  fight  next  day, 
When  all  his  townsfolk  ran  away. 
That  was  in  July,    sixty-three, 
The  very  day  that  General  Lee, 
Flower  of  Southern  chivalry, 
Baffled  and  beaten,  backward  reeled 
From  a  stubborn  Meade  and  a  barren  field. 


24  John  Burns  of  Gettysburg. 

I  might  tell  how,  but  the  day  before, 
JOHN  BURNS  stood  at  his  cottage  door,      ' 
Looking  down  the  village  street, 
Where,   in  the  shade  of  his  peaceful  vine, 
He  heard  the  low  of  his  gathered  kine, 
And  felt  their  breath  with  incense  sweet  ; 
Or,  I  might  say,  when  the  sunset  burned 
The  old  farm  gable,  he  thought  it  turned 
The  milk  that  fell  in  a  babbling  flood 
Into  the  milk-pail,  red  as  blood  ! 
Or,  how  he  fancied  the  hum  of  bees 
Were  bullets  buzzing  among  the  trees. 
But  all  such  fanciful  thoughts  as  these 
Were  strange  to  a  practical  man  like  Burns, 
Who  minded  only  his  own  concerns, 
Troubled  no  more  by  fancies  fine 
Than  one  of  his  calm-eyed,  long-tailed  kine — 
Quite  old-fashioned  and  matter-of-fact, 
Slow  to  argue,  but  quick  to  act. 
That  was  the  reason,  as  some  folk  say, 
He  fought  so  well  on  that  terrible  day. 


John   Burns   of  Gettysburg. 

And  it  was  terrible  :      On  the   right 

Raged  for  hours   the  heady  fight, 

Thundered  the  battery's  double  bass  — 

Difficult  music  for  men  to  face  ; 

While  on  the  left — where  now  the  graves 

Undulate   like  the  living  waves, 

That  all  that  day  unceasing  swept 

Up  to   the  pits  the  rebels  kept — 

Round  shot  ploughed  the  upland  glades, 

Sown  with  bullets,  reaped  with  blades  ; 

Shattered  fences  here  and  there 

Tossed  their  splinters  in  the  air  ; 

The  very  trees  were   stripped  and  bare  ; 

The  barns  that  once  held  yellow  grain 

Were  heaped  with  harvests  of  the   slain, 

The  cattle  bellowed  on  the  plain, 

The  turkeys  screamed  with  might  and  main, 

And  brooding  barn-fowl  left  their  rest 

With  strange  shells  bursting  in  each  nest. 

Just  where  the  tide  of  battle  turns, 
Erect  and  lonely  stood  old  John  Burns. 

3 


26  John  Burns  of  Gettysburg. 

How  do  you  think  the  man  was  dressed  ? 

He  wore  an  ancient  long  buff  vest, 

Yellow  as  saffron — but  his  best ; 

And,  buttoned  over  his  manly  breast, 

Was  a  bright  blue  coat,  with  a  rolling  collar, 

And  large  gilt  buttons — size  of  a  dollar — 

With  tails  that  the  country-folk  called    "swallcr. 

He  wore  a  broad-brimmed,   bell-crowned  hat, 

White  as  the  locks  on  which  it  sat. 

Never  had  such  a  sight  been  seen 

For  forty  years  on  the  village  green, 

Since  old  John  Burns  was  a  country  beau, 

And  went  to  the  "  quiltings  "  long  ago. 

Close  at  his  elbows  all  that  day, 

Veterans   of  the  Peninsula, 

Sunburnt  and  bearded,   charged  away ; 

And  striplings,  downy  of  lip  and  chin — 

Clerks  that  the   Home  Guard  mustered  in — 

Glanced  as  they  passed  at  the  hat  he  wore, 

Then  at  the  rifle  his  right  hand  bore  ; 

And  hailed  him  from  out  their  vouthful  lore. 


John    Burns   of   Gettysburg.  2 

With  scraps  of  a  slangy  repertoire  : 
"  How  are  you,  White  Hat  !"    "  Put  her  through  !'' 
"  Your  head's  level,"  and  "  Bully  for  you  !" 
Called  him  "  Daddy  " — begged  he'd  disclose 
The  name  of  the  tailor  who  made  his  clothes, 
And  what  was  the  value  he  set  on  those  ; 
While  Burns,  unmindful  of  jeer  and  scoff, 
Stood  there  picking  the  rebels  off — 
With  his  long  brown  rifle,  and  bell-crown  hat, 
And  the  swallow-tails  they  were  laughing  at. 

'Twas  but  a  moment,  for  that  respect 

• 
Which  clothes  all  courage  their  voices  checked  ; 

And  something  the  wildest  could  understand 
Spake  in  the   old  man's  strong  right  hand  ; 
And  his  corded  throat,  and  the  lurking  frown 
Of  his  eyebrows  under  his  old  bell-crown  ; 
Until  as  they  gazed,  there  crept  an   awe 
Through  the  ranks  in  whispers,  and  some  men  saw, 
In  the  antique  vestments  and  long  white  hair, 
The  Past  of  the  Nation  in  battle  there  ; 
And  some  of  the  soldiers  since  declare 


28  John  Burns  of  Gettysburg. 

That  the  gleam  of  his  old  white  hat   afar, 
Like  the  crested  plume  of  the  brave  Navarre, 
That  day  was  their  oriflamme  of  war. 

So  raged  the   battle.      You  know  the  rest  : 
How  the  rebels,  beaten  and  backward  pressed, 
Broke  at  the  final  charge,  and  ran. 
At  which  John  Burns— a  practical   man- 
Shouldered  his  rifle, 'unbent  his  brows, 
And  then  went  back  to  his  bees  and  cows. 

That  is  the  story  of  old  John  Burns  ; 
This  is  the  moral  the  reader  learns  : 
In  fighting  the  battle,  the  question's  whether 
You'll  show  a  hat  that's  white,  or  a  feather  ! 


THE   TALE   OF   A    PONY. 

NAME   of  my  heroine,  simply  "  Rose  : 
Surname,  tolerable  only  in  prose  ; 
Habitat,  Paris — that  is  where 
She  resided  for  change  of  air  ; 
sEtat  xx  ;   complexion  fair, 
Rich,  good-looking,  and  dubonnair, 
Smarter  than  Jersey-lightning — There  ! 
That's  her  photograph— done  with  care. 

In  Paris,  whatever  they  do  besides — 
EVERY  LADY  IN  FULL  DRESS,  RIDES  ! 
Moire  antiqties  you  never  meet 
Sweeping  the  filth  of  a  dirty  street ; 

3* 


30  Tale  of  a  Pony. 

But  every  woman's  claim  to  ton 

Depends  upon 

The  team  she  drives,  whether  phaeton, 
Landeau,  or  britzka.      Hence  it 's  plain 
That  Rose,  who  was  of  her  toilette  vain, 
Should  have  a  team  that  ought  to  be 
Equal  to  any  in  all  Paris ! 

"  Bring  forth  the  horse  !" — the  commissaire 
Bowed,  and  brought  Miss  Rose  a  pair 
Leading  an  equipage  rich  and   rare  : 
"  Why  doth  that  lovf-ly  lady  stare  ?" 
Why  ?      The  tail  of  the  off  gray  mare 
Is  bobbed — by  all  that 's  good  and  fair  ! 
Like  the  shaving  brushes  that  soldiers   wear, 
Scarcely  showing  as  much  back-hair 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's   "  Meg," — and  there 
Lord  knows  she  'd  little  enough  to  spare. 

That  stare  and  frown  the  Frenchman  knew, 
But  did — as  well-bred  Frenchmen  do  : 
Raised  his  shoulders  above  his  crown, 
Joined  his  thumbs,  with  the  fingers  down, 


Tale  of  a  Pony.  31 

And  said,   "  Ah,   Heaven  !"— then,   "  Mademoiselle, 

Delay  one  minute,   and  all  is  well !" 

He  went ;    returned  ;    by  what  good  chance 

These  things  are  managed  so  well  in   France 

I  cannot  say — but  he  made  the  sale, 

And  the  bob-tailed  mare  had  a  flowirg  tail. 

All  that  is  false  in  this   world  below 

Betrays  itself  in   a  love  of  show  ; 

Indignant  Nature  hides  her  lash 

In  the  purple-black  of  a  dyed  moustache  ; 

The  shallowest  fop  will  trip  in  French, 

The  would-be  critic  will  misquote  Trench  ; 

In  short,  you're  always  sure  to  detect 

A  sham  in  the  things  folks  most  affect ; 

Bean-pods  are  noisiest  when  dry, 

And  you  always  wink  with  your  weakest  eye  : 

And  that 's  the  reason  the  old  gray  mare 

Forever  had  her  tail  in  the  air, 

With  flourishes  beyond  compare — 

Though   every  whisk 

Incurred  the  risk 


32  Tale  of  a  Pony. 

Of  leaving  that  sensitive  region  bare — 

She  did  some  things  that  you  couldn't  but  feel 

She  wouldn't  have  done  had  her  tail  been  real. 

Champs  Elysees :    Time,  past  five  ; 
There  go  the  carriages — look  alive  ! 
Everything  that  man  can  drive, 
Or  his  inventive  skill  contrive — 
Yankee  buggy  or  English   "  chay  ;" 
Dog-cart,  droschky,  and  smart  coupe, 
A  desobligeante  quite  bulky, 
(French  idea  of  a  Yankee  sulky ;} 
Band  in  the  distance,   pbying  a  march, 
Footmen  standing  stiff  as  starch  ; 
Savans,  lorettes,  deputies,  Arch- 
Bishops,  and  there  together  range 
^tt-r-lieutenants  and  cent  gardes — (strange 
Way  these  soldier-chaps  make  change) — 
Mixed  with  black-eyed  Polish  dames, 
With  unpronounceable  awful   names ; 
Laces  tremble,   and  ribbons  flout, 
Coachmen  wrangle  and  gend'armes  shout — 


Tale  of  a  Pony.  33 

Bless  us  !    what  is  the  row  about  ? 
Ah  !    here  comes  Rosey's  new  turn-out ! 

Smart  !      You  bet  your  life,   'twas  that  ! 

Nifty  !    (short  for  magnificat} 

Mulberry  panels— heraldic  spread — 

Ebony  wheels  picked  out  with  red, 

And  two  gray  mares  that  were  thoroughbred  ; 

No  wonder  that  every  dandy's  head 

Was  turned  by  the  turn-out — and  'twas  said 

That   Caskowhisky,   (friend  of  the  Czar) 

A  very  good  whip,   (as  Russians  are) 

Was  tied  to  Rosey's  triumphal  car, 

Entranced,  the  reader  will  understand, 

By  "ribbons"  that  graced  her  head  and  hand. 

Alas  !    the  hour  you  think  would  crown 
Your  highest  wishes,  should  let  you  down  ! 
Or  Fate  should  turn,  by  your  own  mischance, 
Your  victor's  car  to  an  ambulance  ; 
From  cloudless  heavens  her  lightnings  glance, 
(And  these  things  happen,  even  in  France ;) 
And  so  Miss  Rose,  as  she  trotted  by — 


34  Tale  of  a  Pony. 

The  cynosure  of  every  eye — 
Saw  to  her  horror  the  off-mare  shy — 
Flourish  her  tail  so  exceeding  high 
That,  disregarding  the  closest  tie, 
And  without  giving  a  reason  why, 
She  flung  that  tail  so  free  and  frisky, 
Off  in  the  face  of  Ca-kowhisky  ! 

Excuses,  blushes,  smiles  :    in  fine, 
End  of  the  pony's  tail,  and  mine  ! 


THE  MIRACLE  OF  PADRE  JUNIPERO. 

THIS  is  the  tale  that  the  Chronicle 
Tells  of  the  wonderful  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  pious  Padre  Serro, 
The  very  reverend  Junipero. 

The  Heathen  stood  on  his  ancient  mound, 

Looking  over  the  desert  bound 

Into  the  distant,  hazy  south, 

Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign 

Where — with  many  a  gaping  mouth, 

And  fissure  cracked  by  the  fervid  drouth — 

For  seven  months  had  the  wasted  plain 

Known  no  moisture  of  dew  or  rain. 

The  wells  were  empty  and  choked  with  sand  ; 

The  rivers  had  perished  from  the  land  ; 


36  The  Miracle  of  Padre  Junipero. 

Only  the  sea  fogs,  to  and  fro, 
Slipped  like  ghosts  of  the  streams  below. 
Deep  in  its  bed  lay  the  river's  bones, 
Bleaching  in  pebbles  and  milk-white  stones, 
And  tracked  o'er  the  desert  faint  and  far, 
Its  ribs  shone  bright  on  each  sandy  bar. 

Thus  they  stood,  as  the  sun  went  clown 

Over  the  foot-hills  bare  and  brown  ; 

Thus  they  looked  to  the  South — wherefrom 

The  pale-face  medicine  man  should  come. 

Not  in  anger,  or  in  strife, 

But  to  bring — so  ran  the  tale — 

The  welcome  springs  of  eternal  life, 

The  living  waters  that  should  not  fail. 

Said  one :  "  He  will  come  like  Manitou, 
Unseen,  unheard,  in  the  falling  dew." 
Said  another :  "  He  will  come  full  soon 
Out  of  the  round-faced  watery  moon." 
And  another  said  :    "  He  is  here  !"  and  lo— 
Faltering,  staggering,  feeble  and  slow- 
Out  from  the  desert's  blinding  heat 
The  Padre  dropped  at  the  heathens'  feet 


The  Miracle  of  Padre  Juniper o.  37 

They  stood  and  gazed  for  a  little  space 
Down  on  his  pallid  and  care-worn  face, 
And  a  smile  of  scorn  went  round  the  band 
As  they  touched  alternate  with  foot  and  hand 
This  mortal  waif,  that  the  outer  space 
Of  dim  mysterious  sky  and  sand 
Flung  with  so  little  of  Christian  grace 
Down  on  their  barren,  sterile  strand. 

Said  one  to  him  :  "  It  seems  thy  god 
Is  a  very  pitiful  kind  of  god  ; 
He  could  not  shield  thine  aching  eyes 
From  the  blowing  desert  sands  that  rise, 
Nor  turn  aside  from  thy  old  gray  head 
The  glittering  blade  that  is  brandished 
By  the  sun  he  set  in  the  heavens  high. 
He  could  not  moisten  thy  lips  when  dry  ; 
The  desert  fire  is  in  thy  brain ; 
Thy  limbs  are  racked  with  the  fever-pain  : 
If  this  be  the  grace  he  sheweth  thee 
Who  art  his  servant,  what  may  we, 


38  The  Miracle  of  Padre  Junipero. 

Strange  to  his  ways  and  his  commands, 
Seek  at  his  unforgiving  hands  ?" 

"  Drink  but  this  cup,"  said  the  Padre,  straight, 
"  And  thou  shalt  know  whose  mercy  bore 
These  aching  limbs  to  your  heathen  door, 
And  purged  my  soul  of  its  gross  estate. 
Drink  in  His  name,  and  thou  shalt  see 
The  hidden  depths  of  this  mystery. 
Drink !"  and  he  held  the  cup.     One  blow 
From  the  heathen  dashed  to  the  ground  below 
The  sacred  cup  that  the  Padre  bore ; 
And  the  thirsty  soil  drank  the  precious  store 
Of  sacramental  and  holy  wine, 
That  emblem  and  consecrated  sign 
And  blessed  symbol  of  blood  divine. 

Then,  says  the  legend — (and  they  who  doubt 
The  same  as  heretics  be  accurst) — 
From  the  dry  and  feverish  soil  leaped  out 
A  living  fountain  ;  a  well-spring  burst 
Over  the  dusty  and  broad  champaign, 
Over  the  sandy  and  sterile  plain, 


The  Miracle  of  Padre  Junipero.  39 

Till  the  granite  ribs  and  the  milk-white  stones 
That  lay  in  the  valley — the  scattered  bones — 
Moved  in  the  river  and  lived  again  ! 

Such  was  the  wonderful  miracle 
Wrought  by  the  cup  of  wine  that  fell 
From  the  hands  of  the  pious  Padre   Serro, 
The  very  reverend  Junipero. 


NATIONAL  AND  SANITARY. 


The  long,  long  night  of  Storm  and  Strife  is  past ; 
Alike  the  grasses  spring  o'er  friend  and  foe ; 
And  thou,  brave  heart,  whose  voice  outrode  the  blast — 
Whose  kindling  thought  made  every  beacon  glow — 

0  friend,  who  would'st  my  future  work  forecast 
Pointing  this  idle  pen  to  higher  things — 

In  these  poor  songs  to  thee  I  still  cling  fast ; 

1  read,  and  lo,  thy  clarion  voice  still  rings 

And  in  mine  own  refrain,  it  is  thy  thought  that  sings. 


H 


THE    REVEILLE. 

ARK !    I  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands, 

And  of  armed  men  the  hum  ; 
Lo  !    a  nation's  hosts  have  gathered 
Round  the  quick  alarming  drum — 
Saying,   "Come, 
Freemen,  come ! 
Ere  your  heritage  be  wasted,"  said  the  quick  alarming  drum. 

"  Let  me  of  my  heart  take  counsel : 

War  is  not  of  Life  the  sum; 
Who  shall  stay  and  reap  the  harvest 

When  the  autumn  days  shall  come  ?" 
But  the  drum 
Echoed,  "Come! 

Death  shall  reap  the  braver  harvest,"  said  the  solemn-sound- 
ing drum. 


46  The  Reveille. 

"But  when  won  the  coming  battle, 

What  of  profit  springs  therefrom  ? 
What  if  conquest — subjugation — 
Even  greater  ills  become  ?" 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come  ! 

You  must  do  the  sum  to  prove  it,"  said  the  Yankee-answering 
drum. 

"What  if,  'mid  the  cannons'  thunder, 

Whistling  shot  and  bursting  bomb- 
When  my  brothers  fall  around  me, 

Should  my  heart  grow  cold  and  numb?" 
But  the  drum 
Answered,  "  Come  ! 
Better  there  in  death  united,  than  in  life  a  recreant — Come  !" 

Thus  they  answered — hoping,  fearing, 
Some  in  faith,  and  doubting  some, 
'Till  a  trumpet-voice  proclaiming, 
Said,  "My  chosen  people,  come!" 
Then  the  drum, 
Lo  !    was  dumb, 

For  the  great  heart  of  the  nation,  throbbing,  answered,  "  Lord, 
we  come  !" 


OUR    PRIVILEGE. 

NOT   ours,  where  ba'.tle  smoke  upcurls, 
And  battle  dews  lie  wet, 
To  meet  the  charge  that  treason   hurls 
By  sword  and  bayonet. 

Not  ours  to  guide  the  fatal  scythe 

The  fleshless  reaper   wields  ; 
The  harvest  moon  looks  calmly  down 

Upon  our  peaceful  fields. 

The  long  grass  dimples  on  the  hill, 

The  pines  sing  by  the  sea, 
And   Plenty,  from  her  golden  horn, 

Is  pouring  far  and  free. 


48  Our  Privilege. 

O  brothers  by  the  further  sea, 
Think  still  our  faith  is  warm  ; 

The  same  bright  flag  above  us  waves 
That  swathed  our  baby  form. 

The  same  red  blood  that  dyes  your  fields 
Here  throbs  in  patriot  pride ; 

The  blood  that  flowed  when  Lander  fell, 
And  Baker's  crimson  tide. 

And  thus  apart  our  hearts  keep  time 
With  every  pulse  ye  feel, 

And  Mercy's  ringing  gold  shall  chime 
With  Valor's  clashing  steel. 


A  SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY. 

1READ  last  night  of  the  Grand  Review 
In  Washington's  chiefest  avenue — 
Two  Hundred  Thousand  men  in  blue 

I  think  they  said  was  the  number — 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  their  trampling  feet, 
The  bugle  blast  and  the  drum's  quick  beat, 
The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  stony  street, 
The  cheers  of  people  who  came  to  greet, 
And  the  thousand  details  that  to  repeat 

Would  only  my  verse  encumber — 
Till  I  fell  in  a  reverie,  sad  and  sweet, 

And  then  to  a  fitful  slumber. 

5 


50  Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army. 

When,  lo  !    in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  stand 
In  the  lonely  Capitol.     On  each   hand 
Far  stretched  the  portico,  dim  and  grand 
Its  columns  ranged  like  a  martial  band 
Of  sheeted  spectres,  whom  some  command 

Had  called  to  a  last  reviewing  ; 
And  the  streets  of  the  city  were  white  and  bare. 
No  footfall  echoed  across  the  square, 
But  out  of  the  misty  midnight  air 
I  heard  in  the  distance  a  trumpet  blare, 
And  the  wandering  night-winds  seemed  to  bear 

The  sound  of  a  far  tattooing. 

Then  I  held  my  breath  with  fear  and  dread, 
For  into  the  square,  with  a  brazen  tread, 
There  rode  a  figure  whose  stately  head 

O'erlooked  the  review  that  morning, 
That  never  bowed  from  its  firm-set  seat 
When  the  living  column  passed  its  feet, 
Yet  now  rode  steadily  up  the  street 

To  the  phantom  bugle's  warning  ; 


Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army.  51 

Till  it  reached  the  Capitol  square,  and  wheeled, 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  revealed 
A  well-known  form  that  in  State  and  field 

Had  led  our  patriot  sires  ; 
Whose  face  was  turned  to  the  sleeping  camp, 
Afar  through  the  river's  fog  and  damp 
That  showed  no  flicker,  nor  waning  lamp, 

Nor  wasted  bivouac  fires. 

And  I  saw  a  phantom  army  come, 
With  never  a  sound  of  fife  or  drum, 
But  keeping  time  to  a  throbbing  hum 

Of  wailing  and  lamentation  ; 
The  martyred  heroes  of  Malvern   Hill, 
Of  Gettysburg  and  Chancellorsville, 
The  men  whose  wasted  figures  fill 

The  patriot  graves  of  the  nation. 

And  there  came  the  nameless  dead — the  men 
Who  perished  in  fever  swamp  and  fen, 
The  slowly-starved  of  the  prison-pen ; 

And,  marching  beside  the  others, 
Came  the  dusky  martyrs   of  Pillow's   fight, 


52  Second  Review  of  the  Grand  Army. 

With  limbs  enfranchised  and  bearing  bright ; 
I  thought — perhaps  'twas  the  pale  moonlight — 
They  looked  as  white  as  their  brothers  ! 

And  so  all  night  marched  the  Nation's  dead 
With  never  a  banner  above  them  spread, 
Nor  a  badge,  nor  a  motto  brandished  ; 
No  mark — save  the  bare  uncovered  head 
Of  the  silent  bronze  Reviewer — 
With  never  an  arch  save  the  vaulted  sky, 
With  never  a  flower  save  those  that  lie 
On  the  distant  graves — for  love  could  buy 

No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

| 

So  all  night  long  swept  the  strange  array, 
So  all  night  long  till  the  morning  gray 
I  watched  for  one  who  had  passed  away, 

With  a  reverent  awe  and  wonder — 
Till  a  blue  cap  waved  in  the  length'ning  line, 
And  I  knew  that  one  who  was  kin  of  mine 
Had  come,  and  I  spake — and   lo  !    that  sign 

Awakened  me  from  my  slumber. 


ON  A  PEN  OF  THOMAS  STARR  KING. 

THIS  is  the  reed  the  dead  musician  dropped, 
With  tuneful  magic  in  its  sheath  still  hidden  ; 
The  prompt  allegro  of  its  music  stopped, 
Its  melodies,   unbidden. 

But  who  shall  finish  the  unfinished  strain, 
Or  wake  the  instrument  to   awe  and  wonder, 

And  bid  the  slender  barrel  breathe  again — 
An  organ-pipe  of  thunder  ? 

His  pen !  what  humbler  memories  cling  about 

Its  golden  curves  ;  what  shapes  and  laughing  graces 

Slipped  from  its  point  when  his  full  heart  went  out 
In  smiles  and  courtly  phrases. 


54  On  a  Pen  of  Thomas  Starr  King, 

The  truth  half-jesting,  half  in  earnest  flung — 
The*  word  of  cheer,  with  recognition  in  it ; 

The  note  of  alms,  whose  golden  speech  outrun^ 
The  golden  gift  within  it. 

But  all  in  vain  the  enchanter's  wand  we  wave ; 

No  stroke  of  ours  recalls  his  magic  vision  ; 
The  incantation  that  its  power  gave 

Sleeps  with  the  dead  magician. 


THE  RABBIT  OF  MALVERN  HILLS. 


A   STORY    FOR   CHILDREN. 


BUNNY,  squatting  in  the  grass, 
Saw  the  glancing  column  pass- 
Saw  the  striped  banner  fly, 
And  the  sabres  twinkle  by; 
Saw  the  chargers  fret  and  fume, 
And  the  flapping  hat  and  plume — 
Saw  them  with  his  moist  and  shy 
Most  unspeculative  eye, 
Thinking  only  in  the  dew, 
That  it  was  a  fine  review. 


56  The  Rabbit  of  Malvern  Hills. 

'Till  a  flash— not  all  of  steel  — 
Where  the  flying  squadrons  wheel, 
Brought  a  rumble  and   a  roar 
Rolling  down  the  velvet  floor, 
And  like  blows  of  Autumn  flail, 
Sharply  beat  the  iron  hail. 

Bunny,  thrilled  by  unknown  fears, 
Raised  his  long  and  pointed  ears, 
Mumbled  his  prehensile  lip, 
Quivered  his  pulsating  hip 
When  the  sharp  vindictive  yell 
Rose  above  the  screaming  shell ; 
Thought  the  world  and  all  the  men — 
All  the  charging  squadrons  meant — 
All  were  rabbit  hunters  then, 
All  to  capture  him  intent. 
Bunny  was  not  much  to  blame, 
Wiser  folk  have  thought  the  same  ; 
Wiser  folk,  because  they  spy 
Every  ill  begins  with  "  I." 

Wildly  panting  here  and  there, 


The  Rabbit  of  Malvern  Hills.  57 

Bunny  sought  the  freer  air 
From  the  columns  closing  in, 
From  the  strange,  confusing  din; 
Till  he  hopped  below  the  hill, 
And  saw  lying  close  and  still, 
Men  with  muskets  in  their  hands  ; 
Never  Bunny  understands 
That  hypocrisy  of  sleep 
In  the  vigils  grim  they  keep, 
As  recumbent  on  that  spot, 
They  elude  the  level  shot. 

One,  a  grave  and  wearied  man, 
Thinking  of  his  wife  and  child 
Far  beyond  the  Rapidan, 
By  the  Androscoggin  wild, 
Felt  the  little  rabbit  creep, 
Nestling  by  his  arm  and  side. 
Wakened  from  strategic  sleep 
To  that  soft  appeal  replied  ; 
Drew  him  to  his  blackened  breast, 
And — but  you  have  guessed  the  rest. 


58  The  Rabbit  of  Malvern  Hills. 

Softly  o'er  that  chosen  pair 
Omnipresent  Love  and  Care 
Drew  a  mightier  hand  and  arm, 
Shielding  each  from  every  harm — 
Right  and  left  the  bullets  waved, 
Saved  the  savior  for  the  saved. 


Who  believes  that  equal  grace 
God  extends  in  every  place, 
Little  difference  he  scans 
'Twixt  the  rabbit's  God,  and  man's. 


OF  ONE  WHO  FELL  IN  BATTLE. 

BY  smoke-encumbered  field  and  tangled  lane, 
Down  roads  whose  dust  was  laid  with  scarlet  dew, 
Past  guns  dismounted,  ragged  heaps  of  slain, 
Dark  moving  files,  and  bright  blades  glancing  through, 
All  day  the  waves  of  battle  swept  the  plain 
Up  to  the  ramparts,  where  they  broke  and  cast 
Thy  young  life  quivering  down,  like  foam  before  the  blast. 

Then  sank  the  tumult.      Like  an  angel's  wing, 

Soft  fingers  swept  thy  pulses.      The  west  wind 

Whispered  fond  voices,  mingling  with   the  ring 

Of  Sabbath  bells  of  Peace — such  peace  as  brave  men  find, 

And  only  look  for  till  the  months  shall  bring 

Surcease   of  Wrong,   and   fail    from    out   the   land 

Bondage  and  shame,   and   Freedom's   altars   stand. 


"w: 


THE     GODDESS. 

HO  comes  ?" — the  sentry's  warning  cry, 

ings  sharply  on  the  evening  air. 
Who  comes  ?  the  challenge— no  reply  ? 
Yet  something  motions  there  ! 

A  woman,  by  those  graceful  folds; 

A  soldier,  by  that  martial  tread. 
"Advance  three  paces.     Halt!  until 

Thy  name  and  rank  be  said." 

"My  name? — her  name,  in  ancient  song, 
Who  fearless  frcm  Olympus  came. 

Look  on  me  !     Mortals  know  me  best 
In  battle  and  in  flame  !" 


62  The  Goddess. 

"  Enough  !  I  know  that  clarion  voice  ; 

I  know  that  gleaming  eye  and  helm — 
Those  crimson  lips — their  dew  that  blends 

The  best  biood  of  the  realm. 

"  The  young,  the  brave,  the  good  and  wise, 
Have  fallen  in  thy  curst  embrace. 

The  juices  of  the  grapes  of  wrath 
Still  stain  thy  guilty  face. 

"  My  brother  lies  in  yonder  field, 
Face  downward  to  the  quiet  grass. 

Go  back  !  he  cannot  see  thee  now ; 
But  here  thou  shalt  not  pass." 

A  crack  upon  the  evening  air, 
A  wakened  echo  from  the  hill ; 

The  watch-dog  on  the  distant  shore 
Gives  mouth — and  all  is  still. 

The  sentry  with  his  brother  lies 
Face  downward  on  the  quiet  grass, 

And  by  him,  in  the  pale  moonshine, 
A  shadow  seems  to  pass. 


The  Goddess.  63 

No  lance  or  warlike  shield  it  bears ; 

A  helmet  in  its  pitying  hands 
Brings  water  from  the  nearest  brook, 

To  meet  his  last  demands. 

•.» 

Can  this  be  she  of  haughty  mien — 

The  Goddess  of  the  Sword  and   Shield  ? 
Ah,  yes  !    The  Grecian  poet's  myth 
Sways  still  each  battle-field. 

For  not  alone  that  rugged  War 

Some  grace  or  charm  from  Beauty  gains, 
But  when  the  Goddess'  work  is  done, 
.    The  Woman's  still  remains. 


"HOW  ARE    YOU,    SANITARY?' 

DOWN  the  picket-guarded  lane, 
Rolled  the  comfort-laden  wain, 
Cheered  by  shouts  that  shook  the  plain, 

Soldier-like  and  merry  : 
Phrases  such  as  camps  may  teach, 
Sabre  cuts  of  Saxon  speech, 
Such  as  "  Bully  !"  "  Them's  the  peach  !" 
"  Wade  in,  Sanitary  !" 

Right  and  left  the  caissons  drew, 
As  the  car  went  lumbering  through, 
Quick  succeeding  in  review 

Squadrons  military ; 


66  How  Are   You,  Sanitary  ( 

Sunburnt  men,  with  beards  like  frieze, 
Smooth-faced  boys,  and  cries  like  these— 
"  U.  S.  San.  Com."    "  That's  the  cheese  !" 
"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  !" 

In  such  cheer  it  struggled  on 
Till  the  battle  front  was  won, 
Then  the  car,  its  journey  done, 

Lo,  was   stationary ; 
And  where  bullets  whistling  fly," 
Came  the  sadder,  fainter  cry, 
"  Help  us,  brothers,  ere  we  die — 

Save  us,  Sanitary  J" 

Such  the  work.  The  phantom  flies, 
Wrapped  in  battle-clouds  that  rise ; 
But  the  brave — whose  dying  eyes, 

Veiled  and  visionary, 
See  the  jasper  gates  swung  wide, 
See  the  parted  throng  outside — 
Hears  the  voice  to  those  who  ride : 

"  Pass  in,  Sanitary  !" 


RELIEVING  GUARD— MARCH  4TH,   1864. 


C 


AME  the  Relief.     "  What,   Sentry,  ho  ! 

How  passed  the  night  through  thy  long  waking !' 
"  Cold,   cheerless,  dark — as  may  befit 
The  hour  before  the  dawn  is  breaking." 

"  No  sight  ?    no  sound  ?"     "  No  ;    nothing  save 
The  plover  from  the  marshes  calling; 
And  in  yon  Western  sky,  about 
An  hour  ago,  a  Star  was   falling." 

"A  star?    There's  nothing  strange  in  that." 
"  No,  nothing ;  but,  above  the  thicket, 
Somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  God 
Somewhere  had  just  relieved  a  picket. 


A  SANITARY  MESSAGE. 

LAST  night,  above  the  whistling  wind, 
I  heard  the  welcome  rain ; 
A  fusilade  upon  the  roof, 
A  tattoo  on  the  pane. 
The  key-hole  piped ;    the  chimney-top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew, 
Yet  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife 
A  softer  voice  stole  through. 

"  Give  thanks,  O  brothers,"  said  the  voice, 
"That  He  who  sent  the  rains 

Hath  spared  your  fields  the  scarlet  dew 
That  drips  from  patriot  veins. 


70  A  Sanitary  Message. 

I've  seen  the  grass  on   Eastern  graves 
In  brighter  verdure  rise  ; 

But  oh,  the  rain  that  gave  it  life 
Sprang  first  from  human  eyes. 

"  I  come  to  wash  away  no  stain 

Upon  your  wasted  lea; 
I  raise  no  banners,  save  the  ones 

The  forest  wave  to  me. 
Upon  the  mountain  side,  where  Spring 

Her  farthest  picket  sets 
My  reveille  awakes  a  host 

Of  grassy  bayonets. 

"I  visit  every  humble  roof; 

I  mingle  with  the  low ; 
Only  upon  the  highest  peaks 

My  blessings  fall   in  snow, 
Until  in  tricklings  of  the  stream, 

And  drainings  of  the  lea, 
My  unspent  bounty  comes  at  last  • 

To  mingle  with  the  sea." 


A  Sanitary  Message. 

And  thus,  all  night  above  the  wind 

I  heard  the  welcome  rain  ; 
A  fusilade  upon  the  roof, 

A  tattoo  on  the  pane. 
The  key-hole  piped  ^  the  chimney-top 

A  warlike  trumpet  blew; 
But  mingling  with  these  sounds  of  strife 

This  hymn  of  Peace  stole  through. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


TO  THE  PLIOCENE  SKULL. 

A  GEOLOGICAL  ADDRESS. 

£~^  PEAK,  O  man,  less  recent !    Fragmentary  fossil  ! 
W_^/    Primal  pioneer  of  pliocene  formation, 
Hid  in  lowest  drifts  below  the  earliest  stratum 
Of  volcanic  tufa  ! 

Older  than  the  beasts,  the  oldest  Palasotherium  ; 
Older  than  the  trees,  the  oldest  Cryptogamia ; 
Older  than  the  hills,  those  infantile  eruptions 
Of  earth's  epidermis  ! 

Eo — Mio — Plio — whatsoe'er  the  "cene"  was 

That  those  vacant  sockets  filled  with  awe  and  wonder- 


76  The  Pliocene  Skull. 

Whether  shores  Devonian  or  Silurian  beaches — 
Tell  us  thy  strange  story  ! 

Or  has  the  professor  slightly  antedated 
By  some  thousand  years  thy  advent  on  this  planet, 
Giving  thee  an  air  that's  somewhat  better  fitted 
For  cold-blooded  creatures  ? 

Wert  thou  true  spectator  of  that  mighty  forest 
When  above  thy  head  the  stately   Sigillaria 
Reared  its  columned  trunks  in  that  remote  and  distant 
Carboniferous  epoch  ? 

Tell  us  of  that  scene — the  dim  and  watery  woodland 
Songless,  silent,  hushed,  with  never  bird  or  insect 
Veiled  with  spreading  fronds  and  screened  with  tall  club- 
mosses, 

Lycopodiacea — 

When  beside  thee  walked  the  solemn  Plesiosaurus, 
And  around  thee  crept  the  festive  Ichthyosaurus, 
While  from  time  to  time  above  thee  flew  and  circled 
Cheerful  Pterodactyls. 


The  Pliocene  Skull.  77 

Tell  us  of  thy  food — those  half  marine  refections, 
Crinoids  on  the  shell  and  Brachipods  au  naturel — 
Cuttle-fish  to  which  the  pieuvre  of  Victor  Hugo 
Seems  a  periwinkle. 

Speak,  thou  awful  vestige  of  the  Earth's  creation  — 
Solitary  fragment  of  remains  organic  ! 
Tell  the  wondrous  secret  of  thy  past  existence — 
Speak  !    thou  oldest  primate  !" 

Even  as  I  gazed,  a  thrill  of  the  maxilla, 
And  a  lateral  movement  of  the  condyloid  process, 
With  post-pliocene  sounds  of  healthy  mastication, 
Ground  the  teeth  together. 

And,  from  that  imperfect  dental  exhibition,         • 
Stained  with  expressed  juices  of  the  weed  Nicotian, 
Came  these  hollow  accents,  blent  with  softer  murmurs 
Of  expectoration  ; 

"  Which  my  name  is  Bowers,  and  my  crust  was    busted 
Falling  down  a  shaft  in  Calaveras  county, 
But  I'd  take  it  kindly  if  you'd  send  the  pieces 
Home  to  old  Missouri  !" 

7* 


AN  ARCTIC    VISION. 

WHERE  the  short-legged  Esquimaux 
Waddle  in  the  ice  and  snow, 
And  the  playful  polar  bear 
Nips  the  hunter  unaware  ; 
Where  by  day  they  track  the  ermine, 
And  by  night  another  vermin — 
Segment  of  the  frigid  zone, 
Where  the  temperature  alone 
Warms  on  St.  Elias'  cone ; 
Polar  dock,  where  Nature  slips 
From  the  ways  her  icy  ships  ; 
Land  of  fox,  and  deer,  and  sable, 
Shore  end  of  our  western  cable — 
Let  the  news  that  flying  goes 
Thrill  through  all  your  Arctic  floes, 


8o  An  Arctic   Vision. 

And  reverberate  the  boast 

From  the  cliffs  of  Beechey's  coast, 

Till  the  tidings,  circling  round 

Every  bay  of  Norton  Sound, 

Throvy  the  vocal  tide-wave  back 

To  the  isles  of  Kodiac. 

Let  the  stately  polar  bears 

Waltz  around  the  pole  in  pairs, 

And  the  walrus,  in  his  glee, 

Bare  his  tusk  of  ivory  ; 

"While  the  bold  sea  unicorn 

Calmly  takes  an  extra  horn ; 

All  ye  polar  skies,  reveal  your 

Very  rarest  of  parhelia  ; 

Trip  it,  all  ye  merry  dancers, 

In  the  airiest  of  lancers  ; 

Slide,  ye  solemn  glaciers,  slide, 

One  inch  further  to  the  tide. 

Nor  in  rash  precipitation 

Upset  Tyndall's  calculation. 

Know  you  not  what  fate  awaits  you, 

Or  to  whom  the  future  mates  you  ? 


An  Arctic   Vision.  81 

All  ye  icebergs  make  salaam — 
You  belong  to  Uncle  Sam  ! 

On  the  spot  where  Eugene  Sue 
Led  his  wretched  Wandering  Jew, 
Stands  a  form  whose  features  strike 
Russ  and  Esquimaux  alike. 
He  it  is  whom  Skalds  of  old 
In  their  Runic  rhymes  foretold; 
Lean  of  flank  and  lank  of  jaw, 
See  the  real  Northern  Thor  ! 
See  the  awful  Yankee  leering 
Just  across  the  Straits  of  Behring ; 
On  the  drifted  snow,  too  plain, 
Sinks  his  fresh  tobacco  stain 
Just  beside  the  deep  iden- 
Tation  of  his  Number  10. 

Leaning  on  his  icy  hammer 
Stands  the  hero  of  this  drama, 
And  above  the  wild  duck's  clamor, 
In  his  own  peculiar  grammar, 
With  its  linguistic  disguises, 
Lo,  the  Arctic  prologue  rises  : 


82  An  Arctic  Vision. 

"  Wa'll,  I  reckon  'tain't  so  bad, 
Seein'  ez  't  was  all  they  had  ; 
True,  the  Springs  are  rather  late 
And  early  Falls  predominate  ; 
But  the  ice  crop's  pretty  sure, 
And  the  air  is  kind  o'  pure  ; 
'Taint  so  very  mean  a  trade, 
When  the  land  is  all  surveyed. 
There's  a  right  smart  chance  for  fur-chase 
All  along  this 'recent  purchase, 
And  unless  the  stories  fail, 
Every  fish  from  cod  to  whale ; 
Rocks,  too  ;  mebbee  quartz  ;  let's  see — 
'T  would  be  strange  if  there  should  be — 
Seems  I've  heerd  such  stories  told ; 
Eh  !— why,  bless  us— yes,  it's  gold  !" 

While  the  blows  are  falling  thick 
From  his  California  pick, 
You  may  recognize  the  Thor 
Of  the  vision  that  I  saw — 
Freed  from  legendary  glamour, 
See  the  real  magician's  hammer. 


THE   AGED   STRANGER. 

AN    INCIDENT   OF   THE   WAR. 


•  *  "•"    WAS  with  Grant  "—the  stranger  said 


I 


Said  the  farmer  :  "  Say  no  more, 
But  rest  thee  here  at  my  cottage  porch, 
For  thy  feet  are  weary  and  sore." 

"  I  was  with  Grant  " — the  stranger  said  ; 

Said  the  farmer  :  "  Nay,  no  more — 
I  prithee  sit  at  my  frugal  board, 

And  eat  of  my  humble  store. 

"  How  fares  my  boy — my  soldier  boy, 
Of  the  old  Ninth  Army  Corps  ?— 

I  warrant  he  bore  him  gallantly 

In  the  smoke  and  the  battle's  roar  !" 


84  The  Aged  Stranger. 

"  I  know  him  not,"  said  the  aged  man, 

"And,  as  I  remarked  before, 
I  was  with  Grant "— "  Nay,  nay,  I  know," 

Said  the  farmer,  "  Say  no  more  ; 

"  He  fell  in  battle—I  see,  alas  ! 

Thou'dst  smooth  these  tidings  o'er — 
Nay  :  speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  be 

Though  it  rend  my  bosom's  core. 

"  How  fell  he — with  his  face  to  the  foe, 
Upholding  the  flag  he  bore  ? 

O  !    say  not  that  my  boy  disgraced 
The  uniform  that  he  wore  ! 

"  I  -cannot  tell,"  said  the  aged  man, 
"  And  should  have  remarked,  before, 

That  I  was  with  Grant— in  Illinois — 
Some  three  years  before  the  war." 

Then  the  farmer  spake  him  never  a  word, 
But  beat  with  his  fist  full  sore 

That  aged  man,  who  had  worked  for   Grant 
Some  three  years  before  the  war. 


THE  HERO  OF  SUGAR  PINE. 


•  '     ^~^     H    tell   me,    Sergeant   of  Battery   B, 


Oh,    hero   of  Sugar  Pine  ! 
Some  glorious  deed  of  the  battle  field, 
Some  wonderful   feat  of  thine. 

"  Some  skilful  move,  when  the  fearful  game 
Of  battle  and  life  was  played 

On  yon  grimy  field,  whose  broken  squares 
In  scarlet  and  black  are  .'aid." 

"Ah,  stranger,  here  at  my  gun  all  day, 
I   fought   till   my  final   round 


86  The  Hero  of  Sugar  Pine. 

Was  spent,  and  I  had  but  powder   left, 
And  never  a  shot  to  be   found ; 

"  So  I  trained   my   gun   on  a   rebel   piece : 
So   true   was   my  range   and   aim, 

A  shot  from   his   cannon  entered  mine 
And  finished  the  load  of  the  same  !" 

"Enough!    Oh,    Sergeant   of  Battery   B, 

Oh,    hero   of  Sugar   Pine  ! 
Alas  !    I   fear  that  thy  cannon's   throat 

Can  swallow  much  more   than   mine  !" 


THE  LEGENDS  OF  THE  RHINE. 

BEETLING  walls  with  ivy  grown, 
Frowning  heights  of  mossy  stone — 
Turret,  with  its  flaunting  flag 
Flung  from  battlemented  crag  ; 
Dungeon-keep  and  fortalice 
Looking  down  a  precipice 
O'er  the  darkly  glancing  wave 
By  the  Lurlie-haunted  cave ; 
Robber  haunt  and  maiden  bower 
Home  of  Love,  and  Crime,  and   Power— 
That's  the  scenery,  in  fine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 


The  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

One  bold  Baron,  double-dyed, 
Bigamist  and  Parricide 
And,  as  most  the  stories  run, 
Partner  of  the  Evil  One  ; 
Injured  innocence  in  white — 
Fair,  but  idiotic  quite — 
Wringing  of  her  lily   hands  ; 
Valor  fresh  from  Paynim  lands. 
Abbot  ruddy,  hermit  pale 
Minstrel,  fraught  with  many  a  tale, 
Are  the  actors  that  combine 
In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

Bell-mouthed  flagons  round  a  board, 
Suits  of  armor,  shield  and  sword, 
Kerchief  with  its  bloody  stain, 
Ghosts  of  the  untimely  slain, 
Thunderclap  and  clanking  chain, 
Headsman's  block  and  shining  axe, 
Thumbscrews,  crucifixes,  racks, 
Midnight-tolling  chapel   bell 
Heard  across  the  gloomy  fell. 


The  Legends  of  the  Rhine.  89 

These  and  other  pleasant  facts, 
Are  the  properties  that  shine 
In  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 

Maledictions,  whispered  vows, 
Underneath  the  linden  boughs  ; 
Murder,  Bigamy  and  Theft, 
Travelers  of  goods  bereft, 
Rapine,  Pillage,  Arson,  Spoil — 
Everything  but  honest  toil, 
Are  the  deeds  that  best  define 
Every  Legend  of  the  Rhine  : 

That  Virtue  always  meets  reward, 
But  quicker,  when  it  wears  a  sword  ; 
That  Providence  has  special  care 
Of  gallant  knight  and  lady  fair ; 
That  villians,  as  a  thing  of  course 
Are  always  haunted  by  remorse — 
Is  the  moral  I  opine, 
Of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine. 


A 


THE  TWO  SHIPS. 

S  I  stand  by  the  cross  on  the  lone  mountain's  crest, 

Looking  over  the  ultimate  sea, 
In  the  gloom  of  the  mountain  a  ship  lies  at  rest, 

And  one  sails  away  from  the  lea ; 
One  spreads  its  white  wings  on  a  far-reaching  track, 

With  pennant  and  sheet  flowing  free ; 
One  hides  in  the  shadow  with  sails  laid  aback — 

The  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me  ! 

But  lo,  in  the  distance  the  clouds  break  away, 

The  Gate's  glowing  portals  I  see, 
And  I  hear  from  the  outgoing  ship  in  the  bay 

The  song  of  the  sailors  in  glee ; 


92  The  Two  Ships. 

So  I  think  ot  the  luminous  footprints  that  bore 

The  comfort  o'er  dark  Galilee, 
And  wait  for  the  signal  to  go  to  the  shore 

To  the  ship  that  is  waiting  for  me. 


THE  LOST  TAILS  OF  MILETUS. 

HIGH*  on  the    Thracian  hills,   half  hid  in  the  billows 
of  clover, 
Thyme,  and   the   asphodel   blooms,  and  lulled  by  Pactolian 

streamlet, 

She  of  Miletus  lay,  and  beside  her  an  aged  satyr 
Scratched  his  ear  with  his  hoof,  and  playfully  mumbled  his 
chestnuts. 

Vainly  the  Maenid  and  the  Bassarid  gamboled  about  her, 
The  free-eyed  Bacchante  sang,  and  Pan — the  renowned,  the 

accomplished — 
Executed  his  difficult  solo.      In  vain  were  their  gambols  and 

dances  : 


94  The  Lost  Tails  of  Miletus. 

High  o'er  the  Thracian  hills  rose  the  voice  of  the  shepherdess, 
wailing. 

"  Ai  !  for  the  fleecy  flocks — the  meek-nosed,  the  passionless 
faces  ; 

Ai  !  for  the  tallow-scented,  the  straight-tailed,  the  high- 
stepping  ; 

Ai !  for  the  timid  glance,  which  is  that  which  the  rustic, 
sagacious, 

Applies  to  him  who  loves  but  may  not  declare  his  passion  !'' 

Her  then  Zeus  answered  slow  :    "  O  !    daughter  of  song  and 

sorrow — 

Hapless  tender  of  sheep — arise  from  thy  long  lamentation. 
Since  thou   canst  not  trust  fate,  nor  behave  as  becomes   a 

Greek  maiden, 
Look  and   behold   thy   sheep." — And    lo  !    they   returned   to 

her  tailless  ! 


A  GEOLOGICAL  MADRIGAL. 

AFTER      HERRICK. 

I     HAVE  found  out  a  gift  for  my  fair  ; 
I  know  where  the  fossils  abound, 
Where  the  foot-prints  of  Aves  declare 
The  birds  that  once  walked  on  the  ground 
O,  come,   and — in  technical  speech — 

We'll  walk  this  Devonian  shore, 
Or  on  some  Silurian  beach 

We'll  wander,  my  love,  evermore. 

I  will  show  thee  the  sinuous  track 
By  the  slow-moving  annelid  made, 

Or  the  Trilobite  that,  further  back, 
In  the  old  Potsdam  sandstone  was  laid. 


96  A   Geological  Madrigal. 

Thou  shall  see,  in  his  Jurassic  tomb, 
The  Plesiosauras  embalmed  ; 

In  his  Oolitic  prime  and  his  bloom — 
Iguanodon  safe  and  unharmed  ! 

You  wished — I  remember  it  well, 

And  I  loved  you  the  more  for  that  wish- 
For  a  perfect  cystedian  shell 

And  a  whole  holocephalic  fish. 
And  O,  if  Earth's  strata  contains 

In  its  lowest  Silurian  drift, 
Or  Palaeozoic  remains 

The  same — 'tis  your  lover's  free  gift. 

Then  come,  love,  and  never  say  nay, 

But  calm  all  your  maidenly  fears, 
We'll  note,  love,  in  one  summer's  day 

The  record  of  millions  of  years  ; 
And  though  the  Darwinian  plan 

Your  sensitive  feelings  may  shock, 
We'll  find  the  beginning  of  man — 

Our  fossil  ancestors  in  rock  ! 


O 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  EMEU. 

SAY,   have  you  seen   at  the  Willows   so  green- 
So  charming  and  rurally  true — 
A  singular  bird,  with  a  manner  absurd, 
Which  they  call  the  Australian  Emeu? 

Have  you 
Ever  seen  this  Australian  Emeu  ? 

It  trots  all  around  with  its  head  on  the  ground, 
Or  erects  it  quite  out  of  your  view ; 

And  the  ladies  all  cry,  when  its  figure  they  spy, 
O  !  what  a  sweet,  pretty  Emeu  ! 
O!  do 
Just  look  at  that  lovely  Emeu  ! 


98  The  Ballad  of  the  Emeu. 

One  day  to  this  spot,  when  the  weather  was  hot, 
Came  Matilda  Hortense  Fortescue ; 

And  beside  her  there  came  a  youth  of  high  name — 
Augustus  Florell  Montague  : 

The  two 
Both  loved  that  wild,  foreign  Emeu. 

With  two  loaves  of  bread  then  they   fed  it,  instead 
Of  the  flesh  of  the  white  cockatoo, 

Which  once  was  its  food  in  that  wild  neighborhood 
Where  ranges  the  sweet  Kangaroo; 
That  too 
Is  game  for  the  famous  Emeu  ! 

Old  saws  and  gimlets  but  its  appetite  whets 
Like  the  world-famous  bark  of  Peru ; 

There  's  nothing  so  hard  that  the  bird  will  discard, 
And  nothing  its  taste  will  eschew 

That  you 
Can  give  that  long-legged  Emeu  ! 

The  time  slipped  away,  in  this  innocent  play, 
When  up  jumped  the  bold  Montague  : 


The  Ballad  of  the  Emeu.  99 

"  Where's  that  specimen  pin  that  I  gaily  did  win 
In  raffle,  and  gave  unto  you, 

Fortescue  ?" 
No  word  spoke  the  guilty  Emeu  ! 

"  Quick  !  tell  me   his  name  whom  thou  gavest  that 

same, 

Ere  these  hands  in  thy  blood  I  imbrue ! " 
"  Nay,  dearest,"  she  cried,  as  she  clung  to  his  side, 
"  I'm  innocent  as  that  Emeu  !" 

"Adieu!" 
He  replied,  "Miss   M.   H.  Fortescue!'' 

Down  she  dropped  at  his  feet,  all  as  white  as  a  sheet, 

As  wildly  he  fled  from   her  view ; 
He  thought  't  was  her  sin — for  he  knew  not  the  pin 

Had  been  gobbled  up  by  the  Emeu; 

All  through 

The  voracity  of  that  Emeu  ! 


THE  WILLOWS. 

AFTER   EDGAR   A.    POE. 

THE  skies  they  were  ashen  and  sober, 
The  streets  they  were  dirty  and  drear ; 
It  was  night  in  the  month  of  October, 

Of  my  most  immemorial  year ; 
Like  the  skies  I  was  perfectly  sober, 

As  I  stopped  at  the  mansion  of  Shear — 
At  the  Nightingale — perfectly  sober, 
And  the  willowy  woodland,  down  here. 

Here,   once  in  an  alley  Titanic 

Of  Ten-pins — I  roamed  with  my  soul — 
Of  Ten-pins — with  Mary,  my  soul ; 

They  were  days  when  my  heart  was  volcanic, 


The  Willows. 

And  impelled  me  to  frequently  roll, 

And  made  me  resistlessly  roll. 
Till  my  ten-strikes  created  a  panic 

In  the  realms  of  the  Boreal  pole, 
Till  my    ten-strikes  created  a  panic, 

With  the  monkey  a-top   of  his  pole. 

I  repeat,  I  was  perfectly  sober, 

But  my  thoughts  they  were  palsied  and  sere — 

My  thoughts  were  decidedly  queer ; 
For   I  knew  not  the  month  »vas  October, 

And  I  marked  not  the  night  of  the  year  ; 
I  forgot  that  sweet  morceau  of  Auber, 

That  the  band  oft  performe'd  down  here, 
And  I  mixed  the  sweet  music  of  Auber 

With  the  Nightingale's  music  by  Shear. 

And  now  as  the  night  was  senescent, 

And  star-dials  pointed  to  morn, 

And  car-drivers  hinted  of  morn, 
At  the  end  of  the  path  a  liquescent 

And  bibulous  lustre  was  born ; 
'Twas  made  by  the  bar-keeper  present, 


The   Willows.  1 03 

Who  mixed  a  duplicate  horn — 

His  two  hands  describing  a  crescent 

Distinct  with  a  duplicate  horn. 

And  I  said  :  "  This  looks  perfectly  regal, 

For  it 's  warm,  and  I  know  I  feel  dry — 

I  am  confident  that  I  feel  dry : 
We  have  come  past  the  emeu  and  eagle, 

And  watched  the  gay  monkey  on  high  : 
Let  us  drink  to  the  emeu  and  eagle — 

To  the  swan  and  the  monkey  on  high — 

To  the  eagle  and  monkey  on  high  ; 
For  this  bar-keeper  will  not  inveigle — 

Bully  boy  with  the  vitreous  eye  ; 
He  surely  would  never  inveigle — 

Sweet  youth  with  the  crystalline  eye." 

But  Mary,  uplifting  her  finger, 

Said  :  "  Sadly  this  bar  I  mistrust — 

I  fear  that  this  bar  does  not  trust. 
Oh,  hasten,  oh,  let  us  not  linger  ! 

Oh,  fly — let  us  fly — ere  we  must !" 
In  terror  she  cried,  letting  sink  her 


104  The   Willows. 

Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust — 
In  agony  sobbed,  letting  sink  her 
Parasol  till  it  trailed  in  the  dust — 
Till  it  sorrowfully  trailed  in  the  dust. 

Then  I  pacified  Mary  and  kissed  her, 
And  tempted  her  into  the  room, 
And  conquered  her  scruples  and  gloom ; 

And  we  passed  to  the  end  of  the  vista, 

But  were  stopped  by  the  warning  of  doom — 
By  some  words  that  were  warning  of  doom. 

And  I  said  :  "  What  is  written,   sweet  sister, 
At  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  ?" 

She  sobbed,  as  she  answered,  "All  liquors 
Must  be  paid  for  ere  leaving  the  room." 

Then  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober, 
As  the  streets  were  deserted  and  drear — 
For  my  pockets  were  empty  and  drear ; 

And   I  cried,  "It  was  surely  October, 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year, 
That  I  journeyed — I  journeyed  down  here — 
That  I  brought  a  fair  maiden  down  here, 


The   Willows.  105 

On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year. 

Ah  !  to  me  that  inscription  is  clear  ; 
Well  I  know  now,  I  'm  perfectly  sober, 

Why  no  longer  they  credit  me  here — 
Well  I  know  now  that  music  of  Auber 

And  this  Nightingale,  kept  by  one  Shear. 


"*" 


NORTH   BEACH. 


LO  !  where  the  castle  of  bold  Pfeiffer  throws 
Its  sullen  shadow  on  the  rolling  tide — 
No  more  the  home  where  joy  and  wealth  repose, 
But  now  where  wassailers  in  cells  abide  ; 
See  yon  long  quay  that  stretches  far  and  wide, 
Well  known  to  citizens  as  wharf  of  Meiggs ; 
There  each  sweet  Sabbath  walks  in  maiden  pride 
The  pensive  Margaret,  and  brave  Pat,  whose  legs 
Encased  in  broadcloth  oft  keep  time  with  Peg's. 

Here  cometh  oft  the  tender  nursery  maid, 
While  in  her  ear  her  love  his  tale  doth  pour ; 


io8  North  Beach. 

Meantime  her  infant  doth  her  charge  evade, 

And  rambleth  sagely  on  the  sandy  shore, 

Till  the  sly  sea-crab,  low  in  ambush  laid, 

Seizeth  his  leg  and  biteth  him  full  sore. 

Ah  me  !  what  sounds  the  shuddering  echoes  bore, 

When  his  small  treble  mixed  with  Ocean's  roar. 

Hard  by,  there  stands  an  ancient  hostelrie, 

And  at  its  side  a  garden,  where  the  bear, 

The  stealthy  catamount,  and  coon,  agree 

To  work  deceit  on  all  who  gather  there  ; 

And  when  Augusta — that  unconscious  fair — 

With,  nuts  and  apples  plyeth  Bruin  free, 

Lo  !  the  green  parrot  claweth  her  back  hair, 

And  the  grey   monkey  grabbeth  fruits  that  she 

On  her  gay  bonnet  wears,  and  laugheth  loud  in  glee 


NOTES. 

THE  LOST  GAI.LKOX. — As  the  custom  on  which  the  central  incident  of 
this  legend  is  based  may  not  be  familiar  to  all  readers,  I  will  repeat  here,  tha  t 
it  is  the  habit  of  navigators  to  drop  a  day  from  their  calendar  in  crossing 
westerly  the  iSoth  degree  of  Longitude  W.  of  Greenwich,  adding  a  day  in 
coming  East,  and  that  the  idea  of  the  Lost  Galleon  had  an  origin  as  prosaic 
as  the  Log  of  the  first  China  mail  steamer  from  this  port.  The  explanation 
of  the  custom  and  its  astronomical  relations  belong  rather  to  "the  usual 
text  books,  than  poetical  narration.  If  any  reader  thinks  I  have  overdrawn 
the  credulous  superstitions  of  the  ancient  navigators,  I  refer  him  to  the  vera- 
cious statements  of  Moldonado,  De  Fonte,  the  later  voyages  of  La  Perouse 
'and  Anson,  and  the  charts  of  1640. 

In  the  charts  of  "  that  day  "  Spanish  navigators  reckoned  Longitude  East 
360  degrees  from  the  meridian  of  the  Isle  of  Ferro.  For  the  sake  of  perspi- 
cuity before  a  modern  audience,  the  more  recent  meridian  of  Madrid  was 
substituted.  The  custom  of  dropping  a  day  at  some  arbitrary  point  in  cross- 
ing the  Pacific  westerly,  I  need  not  say,  remains  unaffected  by  any  change 
of  meridian. 

I  know  not  if  any  galleon  was  ever  really  missing.  For  250  years  they 
made  an  arnual  trip  between  Acapulco  and  Manila.  It  may  be  some  satis- 
faction to  the  more  severely  practical  of  my  readers  to  know,  that,  according 
to  the  best  statistics  of  insurance,  the  loss  during  that  period  would  be  ex- 
actly three  vessels  and  six  lumdredths  of  a  vessel,  which  would  certainly 
justify  me  in  this  summary  disposition  of  one, 

THE  GODDESS. — Contributed  to  the  Fair  for  the  Ladies'  Patriotic  Fund 
of  the  Pacific. 

RELIEVING  GUARD.— THOMAS  STARR  KING  died  March  4th,  1864. 

THE  PLIOCENE  SKULL.— This  extraordinary  fossil  is  in  the  possession  of 
Dr.  Whitney,  of  the  State  Geological  Survey.  The  poem  was  based  on  the 
following  paragraph  from  the  daily  press  of  1866  : 

"A  HUMAN  SKUI.I.  has  been  found  in  California,  in  the  pliocene  forma- 
tion. This  skull  is  the  remnant  not  only  of  the  earliest  pioneer  of  this 

State,  but  the  oldest  known  human  being The   skull  was 

found  in  a  shaft  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  deep,  two  miles  from  Angel's, 
in  Calaveras  County,  by  a  miner  named  James  Matson,  who  gave  it  to 
Mr.  Scribner,  a  merchant,  who  gave  it  to  Dr.  Jones,  who  sent  it  to  the 
State  Geological  Survey.  .  .  .  The  published  volume  of  the  State 
Survey  on  the  Geology  of  California  states,  that  man  existed  here  con- 
temporaneously with  the  mastodon  ;  but  this  fossil  proves  that  he  was 
here  before  the  mastodon  was  known  to  exist." 
IO 


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